Her Name Was Mama

By Lauren Derrick

“On a scale from one to ten, how angry would you be if I brought home a puppy?”

I’d been asking this question for years when the answer finally dropped low enough that I was willing to risk it. After waiting a good eight years of marriage and experiencing the miracle of childbirth three separate times, I felt justified. I always had a dog growing up. I’d always expected to have dogs as an adult.

Didn’t my kids deserve to have a dog?

The height of the pandemic presented a perfect opportunity. We were all home. It was July. It was a time for new projects, for exploring new avenues. So one day I loaded up my three kids and took them over to the Humane Society.

I was not the only one to visit the animal shelter during COVID. Actually, when we arrived, there were only two dogs up for adoption. Dog adoption was up, the workers said. One was a pitbull mix, and one was a black and tan coonhound. Those were the two no one had wanted yet. The only two dogs in the whole shelter. The unchosen. The pit bull mix was a sweet dog, I’m sure, but with three little kids and the size of him I just didn’t think it would work out. But I’ve always had a fondness for hound dogs.

The black and tan had recently given birth to puppies, as evidenced by her swollen tits. Her name was Mama at the shelter, because of course, when any female has brought new life into the world her very identity is forever changed.

I couldn’t help but feel affronted on her behalf. In one swift stroke, the Humane Society had labeled this creature by her past. By her body status. By a change she now had nothing to show for. (Nobody could tell me what had happened to the puppies. I’m not confident it was a happy ending.) It was little wonder, I thought, that the Humane Society had managed to adopt out nearly every other dog. It’s no secret that most people who adopt dogs are looking for puppies, and nothing screams ‘not a puppy’ and ‘I have a past that you don’t know about’ louder than ‘Mama.’

We brought Mama outside to see how she would behave around my toddler. Mama Dog had gentle eyes. A good look at them told me that she was a sweet soul. She sniffed at my youngest, wagged her tail, and then proceeded to take advantage of the brief time out of her kennel that she had been given. Hound dogs are very scent driven, so she spent a good chunk of time just taking it all in. She only weighed forty pounds at the shelter, and I remember thinking to myself, ‘I could handle her on a walk.’

I thought she was a pretty safe bet.

My son wanted to name our new dog Jesse. He named her at the shelter, and that’s the moment that Mama Dog started to get her identity back–or perhaps it was the moment she took on a new identity altogether. She rode in the car, in the passenger seat, my attempts to tie her down with her leash largely ineffectual. I thought I would end up in a car crash as she licked my face and tried to climb into my lap.

Back at the house, we watched as she trepidatiously tried our old, worn couch with a paw. She carefully climbed up on top of it and curled up. My toddler climbed up next to her and threw her tiny arms around Jesse Dog. Jesse Dog held her body still and licked at the baby’s face. We noticed she was still lactating a little. I wondered again what had happened to her puppies.

In the following days, we began weaning Jesse Dog off of the anxiety medication that the Humane Society gives its dogs. I had been told her personality would not change. Despite what they said, Jesse Dog’s energy levels shot up as we weaned her off the pills, as did her appetite. I soon learned that coonhounds love food like Shaggy and Scooby Doo love food. The forty-pound dog I brought home from the shelter soon weighed closer to sixty pounds.

She became energetic and difficult to control on walks. My oldest had been able to hold the leash at first, but that soon became a task strictly for adults. Over time, Jesse’s yanking and tugging on the leash grew so hard that she injured my husband’s shoulder. We asked for advice from friends and neighbors, then learned how to use a nose lead.

She began digging holes, trying to get after critters in the yard. The sensation of hearing her bay was reminiscent of thunder loud enough to penetrate bone marrow. Her deep, throaty coonhound howl was something I soon learned was part of her nature. Coonhounds are bred to chase and bay, to lead the hunter to his mark. No one could pass by the house without Jesse Dog lifting her snout to the air and declaring their presence. Bikes and skateboards and scooters excited her the most, probably because of their added speed that marked them as prey. But no matter how loud she bayed, no matter how energetically she chased, she never bit a soul.

Inside the house, she became our one-dog, under-the-table clean-up crew, which probably contributed to the sudden weight gain. I soon found that the kids’ plates couldn’t be left out if the dog was in the house. She would consistently wait until there were no witnesses. Hot dogs and chicken nuggets would systematically disappear, and not because my kids were eating up their food. The plus side is that the floor under the dining room table had never been cleaner.

Despite being what I would term to be a ‘large’ dog, especially with the weight gain, Jesse Dog very much believed herself to be a lap dog. As we held church services via Zoom or when we gathered for a family movie night, Jesse Dog would put her front paws on the couch next to my husband, lick at his face for a bit, then carefully lift herself up onto the couch and try to curl up on top of his lap. At best, only half of her could really stay on her chosen perch. And it was always him. I suppose none of the rest of us had a lap big enough.

I thought back to the Humane Society’s claims about Mama Dog’s personality not changing once her meds wore off. I mentally grumbled about being lied to, about false advertising. Mama Dog at the shelter was nothing like Jesse Dog at home. Mama Dog, by all appearances and early experiences before her shelter medication ran out, was a beginner-level dog. Jesse Dog could have earned a ‘terrible twos’ or ‘threenager’ difficulty rating. Mama Dog was thankful to be getting walks and was always compliant. Jesse Dog hated her nose lead and would lie down in silent protest mid-walk, middle of the street, because she wanted to bark and leap at other dogs and now couldn’t. Mama Dog enjoyed long naps at home. Jesse Dog would leap and bark in a deep bass voice as we passed other dogs. Mama Dog was quiet. Jesse Dog was a canine street alarm. Mama Dog would sniff at your hand and wag her tail. Jesse Dog would steal your lunch if you turned your back on it.

Mama Dog was named and defined by the state of her body. Jesse Dog had spirit and personality.

One day Jesse Dog was lying on the floor. My little toddler mercilessly tugged on the doggie’s ears and prodded at her. Jesse Dog didn’t react. I almost wished she would, that she would give my baby some sort of signal that the rough treatment was uncomfortable. Maybe a little growl to help teach my child about being gentle with animals.

The little girl toddled off, finally, and Jesse Dog stayed put. There was a crash and a cry, and Jesse Dog jolted up, her head turning towards the spot where my young daughter had just slipped and fallen. She walked over, inspecting the child with her overactive sense of smell. Jesse Dog soon determined that nothing serious was wrong and went back to her spot to lie down.

Perhaps this really was the same dog I had initially adopted after all. Maybe, just maybe, the same dog that pressed her teeth up against the window until her lips pulled back and made ridiculous faces at us while we ate inside could also be the kind and gentle guardian I had initially seen when I looked into her eyes. Perhaps Jesse Dog, who once treed the neighbor’s ten-year-old when she escaped the back yard, could coexist with Mama Dog, who loves napping in puddles of afternoon sunshine.

Perhaps it was wrong for me to assume that any Mama would be one dimensional.